


Westeros Hunger Games

by StrangerWithMyFace



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-20
Updated: 2010-09-20
Packaged: 2017-10-12 01:32:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 21,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrangerWithMyFace/pseuds/StrangerWithMyFace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The concept of "The Hunger Games" transferred to the "A Song of Ice and Fire" universe, with the Targaryen Kings acting like the Capitol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to all my friends at westerosorting (livejournal) for helping me out with this!

THE HUNGER GAMES: A History  
By Maester Collinus

...many believe that the Hunger Games were instituted by Aegon the Conqueror after his victory over the rebellious Seven Kingdoms. This is not the case. The first Hunger Games were held during the reign of Maegor II (sometimes called "The Cruel"). The noble lords of the land were becoming restless, and the Targaryens in King's Landing seemed far away. King Maegor developed the games as a way to demonstrate the Targaryens' dominance over the realm. During this period, only squires that had not yet been knighted were candidates for the reaping. The ultimate victor of the Hunger Games would be knighted by the King himself and given a parcel of land of his own. In this way, the Games demonstrated the destructive capabilities of the Targaryen house, but also the King's great generosity. His favor could win you much respect. The Games continued following King Maegor's death. During this period, the games were held every five years. Smallfolk and female tributes were not allowed. The purpose of the Games was to keep the rowdy nobles in check, and they were particularly useful during the period of wars known as the "Dance of Dragons." A great many traitors were put to death in the arena. It was not until the reign of King Baelor I ("the Blessed") that the games were stopped. King Baelor declared that the Father had come to him in a vision and said the Hunger Games were an affront to His Justice. The Septons argued that the Hunger Games were a way of honoring the unpredictable nature of the Stranger, but their pleas went unheard. King Baelor could not be swayed to reason. A return of the Hunger Games was first proposed by Lord Brynden Rivers (called "Bloodraven") during the Blackfyre Rebellion. At first, King Daeron II resisted the idea, but when it was clear how many traitors there were in the realm, he allowed the games to proceed. They continued through the reign of Daeron's brother, King Maekar, however King Aegon V ("the Unlikely") suspended the Games. It was rumored that King Aegon's mad brother, Aerion Brightflame, was a particular fan of the Hunger Games and thus King Aegon had never been able to enjoy them properly. Following the tragedy at Summerhall, the new King Jaehaerys revived the Hunger Games as a way to win support of the people of King's Landing, who always took great pleasure in the festivities. But it was not until his son, King Aerys II took the Iron Throne that female tributes were allowed in the arena. King Aerys was always a great lover of the Hunger Games. It was at his personal request that fire elements (as opposed to plain combat), such as intentional forest fires, flaming arrows, and even wildfire, were added to the Hunger Games….


	2. MEERA

The cornucopia looked smaller on TV. In person, the solid gold exterior was so large and shiny that it nearly blinded her. The force-field that held her on her pedestal didn't allow Meera to see everything that was inside the cornucopia, but there was food, breads of all types, fresh fruit from the Reach, shellfish that could only be from Dorne. She could also see tents, flint, knives—anything a person needed to survive in the wilderness.

But it was the weapons that caught her attention--a mace with spikes as sharp as she had ever seen gleamed next to the apples. And worse of all, bottles of wildfire—the deadly substance that burst into flames that could not be extinguished—lay exposed at the cornucopia's entrance. Meera worried the hot sun would raise the temperature too much and they would explode.

She looked at as many of the other fifteen tributes and she could see. She wondered if they would risk entering the cornucopia. Benjen Stark, Meera's mentor for the Hunger Games, had advised her that she would not be able to stomach the bloodshed that would follow when the tributes were first set loose and fought over the resources found in the cornucopia. Years of living in the swamp made her good at surviving in the wild and didn't need the help the city dwellers would.

Still, two years ago there had been a sniper rifle in the cornucopia. The tribute from the Riverlands that managed to get his hands on it was able to pick off other tributes at great distances. They were dead before they even heard the gunfire. Meera had to make sure there wasn't such a weapon in play this time. She did not see any firearms. Mostly she saw swords and knives—weapons that you needed to be close to kill with. She supposed the audience in the Crownlands found intimate killing more exciting television viewing. There was a bow and arrow, but besides that the most deadly weapon appeared to be the wildfire. As far as Meera was concerned, that was more deadly to the person that held it than it was to those who did not.

So when the cannon sounded and the sixteen tributes were released from their podiums, Meera turned and ran the opposite way. She could hear the battle joined behind her. There was the tell-tale clash of metal against metal. She kept her head down until she reached the tree line, but even then she did not stop running. The further she was from the tributes with battle-fever, the better off she was.

As she moved quickly yet quietly across the landscape, she considered her competition. Each year, two children from each of the seven kingdoms were chosen at random for the Hunger Games. Meera Reed was the female chosen to represent the North. Just after her name was pulled from the lottery, Jon Snow was chosen as the male tribute. At sixteen, Jon was one of the oldest tributes and he was also trained in combat. Meera bet he was fighting at the cornucopia now. But what about the tributes from the other districts? She tried to remember their names.

From Dorne there was Sarella and a boy whose name she could not recall. Sarella was an archer so if she wanted to live, she would have to have tried for the bow and arrow in the cornucopia. Meera hoped she got it before someone else did, until she realized what she was thinking. She could not hope Sarella got the bow. If Meera wanted to live, then the other fifteen tributes would have to die. Better for Sarella to be killed in the cornucopia melee than for her to live and Meera to have to kill her herself.

Meera kept running and tried not to think about how she did not want to kill anyone, and instead focus on the game. Win or die. There was no middle ground.

The tributes from the Stormlands were Edric and Shireen. Shireen was small and sickly. If she were smart she would've run away from the cornucopia as well. Edric was very sure of himself for such a young boy. He might have tried to risk the fight, but Meera did not think he could survive against some of the others. Waymar from the Vale was much bigger than either of them and could kill them easily.

Who else was there? The boy from the Reach who had a twin brother. Meera had no sense of his personality, but he was probably willing to kill to get back to his twin. The girl from the Reach, Elinor, had seemed sweet and, Meera realized with a pang of guilty, would probably die early on. The Frey boy from the Riverlands might be a problem too. His name had been pulled just after his sister Roslin's name was. It was unfortunate that they would have to compete against one another. Sometimes Meera wondered if the names were not picked at random at all. Afterall, such drama would probably increase the ratings in the Crownlands. King Aerys was probably hoping the two Freys had to kill each other.

That just left the two from the Iron Islands and the two from the Westerlands. The boy from the Iron Islands had been Theon somebody. Jon had known him. Meera wondered if the two of them would form an alliance to knock off the other competitors. The girl from the Westerlands was named Jeyne. Meera remembered she looked scared from the moment her name was drawn. She would not last long. But the boy, Joffrey, seemed to have no qualms killing the other kids. Meera would have to look out for him, especially if he got his hands on the wildfire.

Meera was relieved to find a small, muddy stream within the first four hours in the arena. She pulled a low-hanging branch off a tree and set to work sharpening it with rocks she found in the riverbed. Before long, she had a pretty sharp spear. It wasn't as good as her three-pronged one back home, but she managed to catch a frog quick enough.

She was trying to decide if she could risk cooking it on an open flame, or if she would have to eat it raw when she heard the steps behind her. Meera quickly dove into the underbrush. Someone was coming, and that someone was not taking any pains to be quiet. Either they were not afraid to encounter another tribute, or they were a very poor hunter.

Another girl about Meera's age stumbled toward the stream. She had been crying and Meera silently admonished her. Didn't she know she would dehydrate faster that way? If the girl wanted to live, she'd have to rein in her emotions. As she got closer, Meera recognized the girl. It was Roslin Frey—the female tribute from the Riverlands. She put her leg into the stream, and Meera realized that, underneath her dress, Roslin was badly injured.

Meera looked down at her spear. If she threw it, she might be able to hit Roslin from this distance. The girl was hurt and might die anyway. Some would call it mercy. People back home might even praise her for it. Meera's people had been fighting the Freys since before the dragons came, before anyone had ever heard of the Hunger Games.

But it wasn't very sporting to strike an injured person unawares.

"Hey," Meera said, popping up from her hiding place.

Roslin Frey yelped in surprise. She held her hands up, as if to protect herself from a blow. When one failed to come, she lowered them anxiously.

"What happened? At the cornucopia," Meera asked. "I ran."

Roslin's lower lip trembled. "I should've run," she whispered. "But I needed food. I can't hunt. I thought I could grab some quick and then run." She was on the verge of tears again. "But that blonde boy from the Westerlands struck me from behind. I thought I was dead. I lay on the ground and then—," her voice cracked. "And then my brother appeared and he—he struck me with that mace!"

"Your brother tried to kill you?" Meera asked, stunned. If Jojen had been chosen instead of the Snow boy, she would never have tried to kill him. In fact, she would have killed herself to keep him alive.

Roslin nodded and burst into tears. "Then a jar of wildfire exploded," she said through shaky breaths, "or I would have never gotten away."

Meera sat down next to her and took a look at her leg. She was a poor healer, but she did have something the girl would need. "Want some frog?" Meera asked, holding up the carcass.

She was going to lose this game. She had known that from the moment she failed to strike Roslin from behind. But it made her happy now to think, At least I can play my own way.


	3. SARELLA

The moment Sarella was released into the arena, she knew she was in trouble. The air was wrong; it was too cool. She had been praying for a Dornish playing field, or at least for one resembling the Reach because she was familiar with the plant life there. Perhaps it had been too much to hope. In the early years of the Hunger Games, the dragons picked sites naturally occurring in the Seven Kingdoms until they realized that gave the tributes from those areas an advantage. Now they manufactured the arena from the ground up. If Sarella were to guess, she would say this terrain was closest to the North, but different enough that those two tributes wouldn't be familiar with all the wildlife.

Sarella cursed. She was used the heat not cold. In the few moments it had taken her to adjust to the arena, her entire strategy for surviving the games had gone out the window. She meant to forage for food and stay away from the carnage. She'd defend herself if attacked, of course, but she meant to be a cautious and patient enemy like her Uncle Doran. That was the key to surviving.

But she couldn't, not in this arena. She would not have put it past the Gamemakers to liter the place with poisonous plants and freakish animals that she would not recognize.

All the tributes were placed in a circle, equidistant from the Cornucopia in the center. They each had a starting point, and if they moved from that point before the cannon sounded, they would be disqualified and killed instantly.

Before the cannon went off, Sarella had about twenty seconds to come up with an entirely new strategy.

She found it nestled against the opening of the Cornucopia—one beautifully crafted bow. It was almost as nice as the one Sarella's father had given her. With that bow she could feed and defend herself. But she would have to fight the other tributes for it. She tried to remember if any of the others were archers. There was only one bow that she could see, and only one quiver-full of arrows. There were other treasures in the cornucopia, of course. There were light jackets, water bottles and other less useful things scattered closer to the outside of the circle. But the real gems were in the very center—inside the cornucopia itself. The weapons and the food were all there. Sarella only wanted the bow. That was what held her attention.

She did not have time to contemplate it for long. The cannon fired and she raced from her pedestal toward the glittering horn. She had always been quick. Perhaps she could grab the bow and flee before anyone realized what had happened.

The problem with running into the center of the circle was that eventually, you were guaranteed to come into the path of another tribute. Sarella felt something slam into her from her left side. She tripped, rolled away and tried to keep running. It had been the boy from the Vale. He was trying to grab her and snap her neck. Sarella reached out blindly for a weapon, and felt her hand connect with something solid on the ground. She swung and cracked the boy on the head. Only after she got away did she look down and realize she had struck him with a cooking pot.

The delay had cost her though. She looked up and saw the male tribute from the Iron Islands—Theon something, had the bow in his grasp. Sarella let out a cry that was sheer frustration, dove at him and tried to wrest it from his hands. Theon was stronger than her though, and he flung her to the ground. She landed with a heavy thump, and for a moment she could not breathe.

On her right, mere inches from her head, was a jar of wildfire.

Sarella did not have time to process the fact that if she had landed just a teensy bit differently, she would be dead for certain. When she looked up, she saw that Theon had found the quiver and he was pointing an arrow between her eyes. Even if he were a terrible shot, he could scarcely miss at this distance. She reacted without thinking. She flung the jar of wildfire at him.

The arrow caught the jar in midair. Green exploded in front of Sarella's eyes. The substance rained down on her. Her boots, which were closest to the epicenter, went up. Sarella had seen enough of wildfire at the Citadel that she was not stupid enough to try to put the flames out. She used the cooking pot—miraculously still in her hand—to push off her boots. The heat of the flames caused her feet to break out into red blisters but did not catch fire. She scrambled to her feet, leaving the boots and pot, and rushed back the way she had come, toward the trees.

Sarella did not intend to stop for anything, lest Theon have regained his footing and have a clean shot at her. But when she was halfway to the trees and no arrow had flown, she chanced a look over her shoulder at the cornucopia. Theon's cloak was on fire and he was rolling in the dirt trying to put it out. That would not help, not with wildfire.

Some of the other tributes had turned and fled as soon as the fire started. Others were working together to try to salvage the food before the other pots caught and it all went up. They flung bags of apples and crates of bread as far away from the flames as they could. Sarella wished them well but kept running. At least three more explosions went off by the time she reached the safety of a large tree.

It was a whole different world when she turned to look the second time, all the wildfire had caught fire. The cornucopia itself, made of solid gold, was melting in the heat. Even worse, she saw at least two figures engulfed in flames themselves. Their flesh practically melted off their bones, making them unrecognizable. Sarella wondered if one of them was Theon, if her bow had gone up with him.

She felt sick. But soon even these trees would not be safe. If the flames went any higher, they might catch as well. She forced herself to run further into the woods, only allowing herself to stop when she could hear the sounds of birds chirping again.

Then she fell to her knees and threw up everything she had eaten that morning.


	4. JON

Jon cursed Theon Greyjoy. Jon hated him, but Robb was friends with him and he knew he'd never be able to look his half-brother in the eye (should he survive these games, that was) if he let Theon die. So Jon removed Theon's cloak and half-carried, half-dragged the other boy toward the safety of the trees. He was covered in nasty welts from the heat of his cloak, but his flesh had not gone up. Not like that poor boy from Dorne whose face melted off. Theon groaned something unintelligible.

"Shut up, Greyjoy," Jon responded.

Jon had only been in the arena for an hour (or possibly less), and already he'd seen more death than he cared to. This whole thing was a nightmare. They said names were picked randomly for the Hunger Games. Yet over the years, Jon had noticed that none of the Great Houses ever had a competitor. Probably because the Games were designed to prevent a revolt, not inspire one. Any house with enough men to fight back was spared the reaping. If only Jon had been born Jon Stark rather than Jon Snow he would surely be home right now.

At least three tributes with bastard surnames had been chosen to compete.

Exhausted, Jon dumped Theon on the ground and wiped the sweat from his eyes. He had not made it very far from the cornucopia and his trail was pretty obvious, since had to drag Theon all the way. They'd be easy prey for anyone who was looking for a fight. He needed to find cover, somewhere for Theon to recuperate.

While he was resting, the first of the cannons went off. The cannon fire signaled that a tribute had died—that way everyone in the arena knew the odds. One sounded, then another, then two more. Four dead. Four people who had been alive this morning were gone. It made Jon feel sick. But he knew they had been lucky. More of them could have died in the blaze. And he had seen Hunger Games in the past when as many as eleven tributes died at the cornucopia.

More would have to die if he wanted to get back home to Winterfell. Theon would have to die. He looked at the injured boy and contemplated. Jon had managed to grab a sword from the horn before everything went up. He should stab Theon right here, right now and get it over with. One less person standing in his way. He knew Theon would kill him if the situation were reversed.

Jon sighed. "Maybe there's shelter in those rocks," he said to the unconscious Greyjoy. Theon did not respond.

It was even harder to hoist Theon up the rocks than it was to drag him along the forest floor. The rocks were not even that high. Normally, Jon would have bounded up them without breaking a sweat. But they did form a small cave the length of a short man. Jon was able to shove Theon in there, even though he had to bend the other boy's knees to get him to fit. It was poor cover, not high enough off the ground to be easily defensible and Jon doubted it would keep rain out. He hoped the fact that it was a stupid place to hide would keep anyone from looking in there.

He felt bad leaving Theon alone, but he had to go find water or they would both be dead soon. That would be a lot easier without having to carry Theon around. As an afterthought, Jon left the bow and arrow with Theon for protection. Theon was a better shot than Jon even while insensible.

Jon walked back the way he had come so he could clear away the tell-tale trail he had left. He hesitated at the edge of the forest. He knew it was dumb to go back toward the cornucopia, but his curiosity got the better of him. The fire still burned, though mostly it had run out of things to destroy. A group of tributes stood in full view of anyone, shouting at each other and gesticulating wildly. These would be the careers.

Every year a group of kids unused to fending for themselves in the wild would make an alliance. They would defend the food and the supplies at the cornucopia and keep the other tributes from getting any of it. Jon was not sure why they were called "careers" exactly. Back home, it was meant as an insult. Careers were big and mean; they hunted down the other tributes. No one in Winterfell was happy to see a career win, but Jon knew in other places they were celebrated for their strength and because they didn't skulk or hide.

Jon tried to identify them. There seemed to be only four this year. The first one he recognized was Joffrey, the boy chosen from the Westerlands. Two years ago he would've been safe from the reaping, but it had come out he was the bastard son of Jaime Lannister. Jon would've felt badly for him if Joffrey weren't such a prick. He was glad he hadn't tried to befriend this lot. Any group that would have Joffrey, was a group Jon did not want to be a member of.

Waymar Royce, from the Eyrie, was also there. He looked sullen. Perhaps he thought he was too good to compete in the Hunger Games. Next to him was the tough looking girl from the Iron Islands. Jon wondered what she would make of the fact that he had saved Theon Greyjoy's life, not that they were likely to get a chance to discuss it. Finally there was Benfrey, the Frey boy from the Riverlands. Jon was surprised to see that his sister was not with him. Perhaps she had been one of the four that died in the fire? But Benfrey did not appear upset and Jon knew he would've been gutted if Arya had died like that.

After a time, Jon determined that they were arguing about who to go after next. Only four had died in the fire so that left eight for the careers to kill before they would turn on one another. Although, Jon wondered if they might be persuaded to do that earlier now that the food was mostly destroyed. He would have to think on that later.

Right now, Jon needed to find water. Not only did he need a drink, but he supposed he ought to clean Theon's wounds, maybe try to draw some of the heat out of the skin. Not that he was an expert on burn care. All he knew was when he burned himself on the stove, he stuck his finger under the faucet. If only it would snow, then Jon could put ice on Theon's wounds. The air was crisp. Perhaps when the temperature dropped in the evening, there would be a frost and Jon could freeze some water.

He searched until the sun was low in the sky. Was it possible that the Gamemakers had put them in an arena with no water? Was it this year's trick to keep the body count rising? Everyone knew the Hunger Games were no fun unless they was constant bloodshed and mayhem. Jon wished he had been allowed to bring Ghost with him into the arena. The direwolf would've found water by now…

That gave him an idea.

Jon lay in wait until he saw a fluffy, gray rabbit hop by. The woodland animals must have a source of water. All he had to do was follow them until he found it. The creature darted away as soon as it caught Jon's scent. He raced to keep it in his sights. Again, he wished for Ghost. The wolf would've been able to keep up with a rabbit. Finally, it disappeared into a tiny hole. Jon stopped and gasped, out of breath. If this was the creature's den, then water had to be somewhere nearby, right?

Gods, he hoped so. Jon continued to crash through the brush, unable to hear anything but the blood pounding in his ears. The trees fell away and Jon found himself standing at the edge of a small stream. That was the good news. The bad news was that he had also found the careers again.

All four of them stared at him, surprised at being interrupted while filling their own water skins. Jon cursed himself for not being more cautious. It had assumed no one else was nearby. It was a mistake that was like to cost him his life. He turned and fled, but knew it was unlikely he could outrun all four of them. He needed to hide or find a more defensible position.

Something whizzed by his ear. Jon turned to see an ax buried in a nearby tree. The ironborn girl had thrown it at his head. Jon was thinking it was a miracle she had missed at this distance when he felt the sharp pain. He reached up to discover half of his ear was missing. His fingers came away bloody, Jon was too shocked to cry out.

And then they were on him. Jon had seconds to pull his sword from its scabbard and try to defend himself. The blond boy, Joffrey, swung his own sword at Jon and he met it easily. Jon was glad for Ser Roddrick's lessons in the yard. Joffrey had not expected a fight from Jon, and was caught off guard when Jon managed to wrest Joffrey's sword from him. If it had not been four against one, he could've killed the westerner easily, but just then Benfrey lunged at Jon with his ridiculous, spiked mace. Jon dodged and the mace ended up stuck in the hard ground. Benfrey had to abandon the fight to pry it loose.

Waymar Royce had only a knife to fight with. No doubt he hoped to take Jon's sword once this battle was over. He thrust it at Jon but did not come close enough to risk his own hide. By then the girl had retrieved her ax from the tree, and she brought it down at Jon's head. He just barely managed to get his sword up to block the blow. She was the real danger. Even though her weapon had a shorter reach, she had no trouble handling herself in close quarters. She wielded her ax like a warrior. Jon had no doubt she was a reaver. If only Theon hadn't gotten himself knocked unconscious, maybe he and Jon could've convinced her to team up with them instead of these idiots.

Jon saw an opening and he slashed at her. She cried out as the sword split open the calf of her right leg, and fell to the ground. He hesitated. Should he kill her now? Was it honorable to kill an injured opponent? Hadn't he just been thinking he would have liked to have her on his side? What could he say to convince her to help him fight off the other three?

The other three!

Jon pivoted, but too late. The mace only cracked into his face rather than the back of his head. One of the spikes drove through his eye. He fell, awkwardly, on top of the ironborn girl. The last thing he thought was that he hoped someone back home had the sense to cover Arya's eyes before she saw him die.


	5. JEYNE

Jeyne did not dare breathe, even after she heard the cannon go off and the careers leave. She stayed in her tree and prayed to any god that might be listening that they would not come for her too. She had been in a state of constant fear since her named had been pulled at the reaping. She was not a fighter and she did not want to kill anyone. In fact, she was far better at healing people's wounds than causing them. She had even trained with a maester who had passed through the Crag for a time.

When she heard the other tributes coming, she scurried up a tree and hoped they would not see her. But she could see them. She saw them talking. She saw that other boy come upon them. She saw them fight. She saw that boy's head split open by a mace.

She had never wanted to go home so much in her entire life. She wouldn't even mind her mother's constant scolding.

She was just thinking she might never climb down out of this tree—just stay up there until she dropped dead from hunger or was declared the victor—when she heard the moaning. It wasn't anything like a wounded animal; it was very obviously a human cry. Jeyne tried to cover her ears and shut it out, but she just couldn't. She could just imagine herself lying there on the ground, injured and dying. It didn't stop. It seemed to go on for hours. She thought if she stayed up in this tree, she was like to go mad.

Cautiously, Jeyne climbed down. She poked her head into the clearing she had seen the other tributes fighting in. It was worse than she had imagined, if that was possible. The boy from the North was on the ground. One of his eyes was coming out of its socket, and gray brain matter dribbled down his face. He was very clearly dead.

It was the girl underneath him that was making the noise. She was bleeding from wounds in her leg and her abdomen. Jeyne looked around the forest. She wished someone would come help her. She wished she would just wake up from this nightmare. Neither happened. Instead, Jeyne went to the stream and filled her waterskin, then returned to the clearing.

She lifted the boy off of the girl, trying to touch his corpse as little as possible. Then she began the process of cleaning the girl's wounds. The knife was still sticking out of her abdomen. Jeyne did not think she should pull it out, lest she cause even more damage. But if she left it in there, the injury would never heal properly. This girl needed a real maester, not a frightened girl with only some water.

"Do it," the girl said. Jeyne jumped. She had thought she was unconscious.

"You want me to pull the knife out?" Jeyne asked, eyes wide.

The girl looked at her like she was dumb. "Pull it out and put it back in again." She tapped her breast. "Here."

"I don't think I can," Jeyne said, with a hitch in her voice.

The ironborn girl looked at her curiously. Jeyne thought she was going to yell at her and call her stupid. Instead she said, "The first kill is the hardest." Then she stopped talking to cough and catch her breath. Just speaking was a lot of effort. "It's mercy though. Do it."

Again, Jeyne hesitated. "What's your name?" she asked, feeling guilty that she did not remember from before.

The girl coughed again. "Gysella," she said.

"I'm Jeyne Westerling," she said, formally, as though they were being presented to one another at a dinner party.

"I hope you have better aim than that other westerner, Jeyne Westerling," Gysella said.

Jeyne nodded. She blinked back tears, pulled the knife from Gysella's belly and buried it in her chest. The other girl did not cry out. She simply died, holding Jeyen's gaze. Jeyne sat there for she did not know how long, just staring into Gysella's glassy eyes. She had not even heard the cannon go off, but there must have been one. Six dead now. Only ten left. And on the scoreboard back in King's Landing, there would be a "one" underneath Jeyne Westerling's name in the "kills" column. It would boost her odds in the betting, and maybe win her some sponsors.

It was only when she heard the flapping of leathery wings overhead that Jeyne looked away.

The dragons were coming to collect their tributes. If Jeyne did not move, they might take her away too. She pushed herself up onto her feet and then realized she had no weapon. She reached down and with great effort, pulled the knife back out of Gysella's corpse. Gysella wouldn't be needing her knife, but Jeyne might.

She ran.


	6. ELINOR

Elinor sat with her back against the biggest tree she could find. She had not been able to find a cave or something else to give her more suitable shelter. Nor had she anything to keep her warm. She rubbed her arms again. It had always been her strategy to run as soon as the first cannon sounded, but now she wished she had grabbed something from the cornucopia—a coat or a sleeping bag. With only a cotton cloak to keep her warm, she was freezing.

The temperature had dropped noticeably since the sunset. Elinor bet the Gamemakers were making it as cold as possible. She had seen another Hunger Games where one girl was so cold, she gave in and built a fire in the middle of the night. The fire had inevitably brought the career tributes down upon her and she was dead before her hands had warmed. Elinor refused to be that girl. She tried to close her eyes and imagine herself in Highgarden or the Arbor, somewhere warm and happy.

It was impossible. Her mind kept flashing back to the events of the day. She hadn't fought, but she could hardly miss the cannons. Six dead already. She had not known who they were until the dragons appeared in the sky at sunset.

It was traditional for the dragons to bear banners showing the pictures of the dead tributes at the end of each evening. That way everyone in the arena knew who their competition was.

The first face had been the boy from Dorne. Elinor had not been too sad to see him go. She did not remember his name, and she had only met him briefly before the Games. She could almost pretend he wasn't real.

Then Horas Redwyne's face appeared and she had to keep herself from screaming. Horas was the other tribute from the Reach. She hadn't known him well, but she remembered playing with him at Highgarden when they were children. Perhaps part of her had thought they would be a team and help each other through. Now she truly had no one. She was all alone.

It barely registered when Edric from the Stormlands and the girl from the Vale appeared in the sky as well. Then Jon Snow's face appeared. Elinor didn't know him either but she remembered thinking he was handsome when they were first introduced. He was older than her, and a trained fighter. She had thought he might win. Gysella from the Iron Islands was the last. Elinor was surprised about that too. She thought Gysella would be a member of the career pack. If so, how had she died the first day?

Confused, cold and afraid, that was what Elinor felt.

Now she wondered how long it would take for her to freeze to death? Longer than one night, surely? She didn't know. She'd never heard of anyone freezing to death in the Reach. It seemed a very unpleasant way to go. She thought she'd rather light a fire to entice the others to come kill her instead. It would be quicker. She knew she couldn't fight off these other tributes if it came to that. Why even bother waiting around for whatever horror was to come next? It might e easier just to get it over with. But she didn't have a knife or poison or a rope or anything. She couldn't even kill herself; she had to rely on someone else to do it.

Would her father be ashamed of her if she killed herself? She thought, maybe he would so that was no good. What would Margaery do if she were here? She'd have some brilliant idea, surely. Elinor missed her cousins fiercely. She missed having someone to talk to most of all. She thought maybe death wouldn't be so bad as long as you didn't go it alone.

Elinor must have dozed off, despite her vow to be vigilant, because when she woke the light in the forest was different. It was still dark, but the moon had travelled across the sky some. The animal noises that had lulled her to sleep were gone. The woods were oddly quiet. And then she heard it: a growl.

Instantly, she was on her feet. She didn't know what kind of creature made that noise but it didn't sound friendly. She wanted to run away but she wasn't quite sure which direction the sound had come from. Paralyzed with fear, she waited.

And waited.

A huge shadow appeared to her right. It seemed to get bigger the longer she looked. Elinor's mind whirled with frightening possibilities. Had the Gamemakers sent some kind of nightmare creature into the arena? Could they have released The Others? Was that why it was so cold?

Then the creature came forward and Elinor realized it was a bear—a normal, living bear. It had foam coming from its jaws. She was still terrified, of course. She could not remember the best way to deal with a bear. Were you supposed to run? Or make noise? Or play dead? She didn't know! All she could think of, in her hysteria, was the song A bear! A bear! A bear and the maiden fair. Would they play that song on the soundtrack to her death?

Something heavy plowed into Elinor from behind. She screamed, convinced it was another bear that had snuck up on her. But when no foamy jaws sunk into her flesh and no claws cut her skin, she dared open one eye. "Move!" shouted the other girl.

Elinor did not have to be told twice. She ran. The other girl was faster and she grabbed Elinor's hand to speed her along. "Follow me!" she cried, looking over her shoulder at the bear that was now pursuing them. Elinor squeezed her hand back and did as she was bid.

She was running out of breath—her shins hurt and she knew she would have to stop soon—when the other girl stopped at the trunk of a very old tree and began to push Elinor up. "Climb!" she said.

Margaery was a good tree-climber, but Elinor had never been able to do it. The bark hurt her hands and she'd much rather stay on the soft ground. This tree's trunk was almost entirely flat; there was nothing to hold onto to hoist oneself up. She opened her mouth to protest, when the other girl put her shoulder underneath Elinor's bottom and hoisted her into the air. Another pair of hands reached down from the branches and grabbed hold of Elinor, and before she knew it, she was sitting next to a third girl on a thick branch.

The one who had saved her, climbed up the tree by herself. It seemed to Elinor that she had some kind of magic to be able to shimmy up the trunk like that. But she was glad, because the bear was upon them now and otherwise the other girl would be eaten.

They sat on the branch like three strange birds, peering out at the ground below them. "It's drugged or something," said the first girl. They watched the creature, snuff angrily around the tree, and then sulk off in search of easier prey. "They don't usually attack humans."

Elinor found that hard to believe but she kept quiet, busy with catching her breath.

"You're lucky we saw you," said the second girl. Elinor could only nod. How had they seen her?

As if in answer to her unspoken question, the girl continued. She raised a strange, cracked eyepiece to her face and said, "I was testing out our night vision goggles when I saw the bear and Meera just sprang right into action," she said with a grin. And then she added, at Elinor's confused face, "I'm Roslin. This is Meera."

The red-headed crannogman nodded her head.

Elinor turned back to Roslin. "Where did you get those?" she asked, pointing to the goggles.

Meera and Roslin exchanged a look, as though discussing if they ought to trust Elinor. They must have agreed because then Roslin said, "We took them from the careers. Earlier they left their stuff unguarded to go find water and Meera snuck into their camp and took some useful looking things while I stood look-out."

Roslin was clearly pleased with herself—as though acting as look-out were a terribly dangerous job. She continued, "We took some food, a knife, and this blanket that heats up by itself, some bandages for my leg," she indicated her calf, which Elinor assumed was injured, "and a trident for Meera."

"It's a frog spear," Meera corrected. "They weren't using it anyhow," she said as though that made stealing it okay.

"Weren't they angry you took their things?" Elinor asked. She was afraid of the careers. She kept thinking one of them was going to come and kill her while she sat at the base of her tree earlier.

Meera shrugged. "They were mad but they don't know who took it. It's not really their stuff anyway; they just saved it from the cornucopia. It was meant for all of us."

"They are going to be more careful about keeping watch from now on though," said Roslin, raising the goggles to her eyes and looking out across the trees. She fiddled with a button on the side of the device. "My brother is on watch now but I bet he'll fall asleep."

Elinor realized, surprised, that this must be the Frey girl—the one whose brother was also chosen as a tribute. It was odd to think that she and her brother were not working together. In fact, they were clearly at cross-purposes.

Meera took the goggles from Roslin and looked herself. "There are only three of them now. I wonder what happened to the girl."

"She died," said Elinor, before she could stop herself. "Her face was in the sky this evening."

Meera and Roslin looked at each other. "The means there are three of them and three of us!" exclaimed Roslin happily. "And now one will always have to stay and guard the camp, so we'll outnumber them in the forest!"

Meera frowned.

What was she talking about? Three of them? Elinor had only seen two. She waited and then it dawned on her: they meant her. The other two girls turned to Elinor and looked at her expectantly. She supposed they must have seen the hesitation in her face. Elinor did not know what to say. These girls had saved her life, and it was awful nice to have friends again. Meera and Roslin weren't like Margaery, Megga and Alla, not really. But if she was going to die, she did not want to do it again.

Elinor nodded.

Meera grinned. "First we need to find her—she might be injured," she said to Roslin. Elinor realized she did not know who they were talking about. "But then, 'Let the Games begin'," she enthused.


	7. THEON

Theon woke a couple of times before he got up. Each time, he concluded that the pain of staying awake was just not worth it. Once, he tried to sit up but hit his head on a rock. The only opening in the tiny cave was at his feet. He would have to shimmy down to get out. "Fuck that," he thought, and fell asleep again. Later, he did eventually wriggle out of the cave, but only because the smell had become too much for him. It was agony to move, especially to have his back touching the cold ground. His cloak had gone up in flames and everywhere it had touched felt itchy, dry, slippery and painful all at the same time. He wanted to claw his own skin off.

He blinked as he entered the bright, sunny day. From the sky, he could tell it was well into the afternoon. The battle at the cornucopia had been in the morning, so he probably hadn't been out for more than a couple of hours. He brushed aside the nagging suspicion that his muscles wouldn't be this stiff after only a few hours of sleep.

At first, he wondered how he had got into that stupid, little cave. All he remembered was the fire and passing out. And he didn't think he could have gotten himself into the cave without knowing it. It was too complicated a maneuver. That meant someone had carried him there. There was only one person in the arena stupid enough to do that. "Damnit, Snow," he swore. He could've at least found a more roomy spot, so Theon didn't nearly crack his head open trying to sit up properly. He rubbed the sore place on his forehead angrily.

Where was Jon? There wasn't any sign of anyone else around. That was odd. Theon wondered if he should stay put and wait for Jon to return, or if he should get moving. His back hurt and he really needed to do something about it. Wash it in a river, maybe? He wasn't sure; his mind was slow and confused.

He heard voices not far off. At first, Theon thought it was Jon but then he recognized the sneering voice of Joffrey Baratheon (or was it Hill now?). Theon couldn't believe Jon had left him so close to the career camp. What an idiot! Irritated, he got up and started moving even though it hurt. Jon would just have to find him somehow. There was no way Theon was going to sit there and wait to be killed.

Walking was agony and it put Theon in a foul temper. He was alone, with no food or water. If Jon hadn't left the bow for him, he'd have nothing. He couldn't believe he was doing so poorly. Unlike the other kids, Theon had always known he would be picked for the Hunger Games. The Games were started when the Targaryens conquered Westeros and they were designed to quell rebellion. So when Theon's father, Balon Greyjoy, raised a rebellion when Theon was a boy, he figured his name would "randomly" come up one day.

Those whiny, frightened girls could claim they were just so shocked to have their name called, but Theon had no excuse. He had practiced for this. Hadn't he learned to shoot an arrow better than anyone in Winterfell because it was the fastest and easiest way to pick off opponents? He should be halfway to winning this thing by now. Damn that Dornish bitch. Who throws wildfire at someone? He swore by the Drowned God that he would kill her.

… if she was still alive, that was. Come to think of it, he didn't even know how many tributes were left in the competition. Jon would know. He had to find Jon. And then, more than likely, he would have to kill Jon.

Fortunately, Theon found a small stream fairly quickly. Unfortunately, he also found that attempting to remove his clothing was painful. It was like he was ripping his skin off. He tried to twist his head around to see what was going on back there, but without a mirror it was hard to tell. His hands were red and swollen. He assumed his back was the same. Right?

"You're going to have to cut your clothes off," said a voice from behind him.

Theon whirled and picked up his bow. Clutching the wood was hard and when he released, he felt a sharp pain in his fingers. The arrow went way wide. The girl watched it sail to her right with no fear whatsoever. Theon couldn't believe he had missed. He had never missed from such a close distance! He was still trying to wrap his brain around it when she spoke again.

"I can help you," she said. "I trained with a maester for a time."

Theon regarded her. She was a young girl, about his age. She had soft brown hair and eyes. He thought she looked like one of those sweet girl-next-door types that Robb would've gone for. Theon liked them a bit curvier himself, but she wasn't bad looking.

If she noticed him checking her out, she didn't show it. "Have you been out since the first day?" she asked.

That brought him up short. The first day? Did that mean today wasn't the first day? How long had he been out? Mutely, he nodded.

"Let's make a deal, okay?" she said. "I'll tell you what you missed and do my best to fix you up, if you'll use that bow to hunt us some dinner?"

Theon thought about it. He didn't trust this girl. He didn't trust anyone in the arena. But he was sure he could kill her when it came to that. He also really needed someone to look at his back. So he nodded.

She pulled out a knife. He jumped. Where had she gotten that? "I'm going to need to cut your shirt off," she explained.

Theon's eyebrow shot up. "Just can't wait to see me naked, eh?" he said, with a wink, as the two of them sat on the green grass. She gave him a look that said, "Are you kidding?" and set to work cutting the fabric away from the wounds. It hurt but he didn't dare show it. He heard her make gagging noises a few times, so it must have been worse than he thought.

After a time, she went down to the stream and filled a skin with water, and poured it down his back. It felt good. Theon almost let out a groan. The girl screwed up her face and began pawing at his back. At first he couldn't figure out why she was touching him that way and then it hit him—she was trying to dig extra cloth out of his flesh.

He supposed it was lucky he found her, if she had truly been trained by a maester. He tried to remember her name, but it didn't come to him. She was either the tribute from the Reach or the Westerlands. Or maybe she was from the Riverlands. They all sort of looked the same.

"I'm Jeyne," she said, as though she was reading his mind.

"Theon," he replied.

"From the Iron Islands," she said. "Did you know the female tribute from your district well?"

Theon thought. Gysella was her name, wasn't it? But he had been raised at Winterfell so he didn't know her at all. He wondered if she was a friend of Asha's or something. "No," he replied simply. "I never met her before the reaping."

"Good," said Jeyne, wiping her hands on her skirt. "I killed her."

That surprised him. "You?" he asked, incredulously.

"Well," she said, "Waymar Royce injured her; I just finished the job. She said it was mercy."

Still, it surprised him. He wouldn't have thought she had it in her. Maybe he should've been more worried that she was standing so close to him with her knife in her hand.

She touched her hands to his back again, more gently this time. It was kind of nice actually. He thought maybe she was coming onto him until she sighed at sat back. "The wound's hot to the touch, I think it's infected," she said.

That didn't sound good. He turned around to look at her and found she was biting her lip in consternation. "Maybe I could climb one of those trees. There might be a beehive with honey," she mused.

"Honey?" he asked. This girl was kinky. He liked it!

"It's an anti-bacterial agent," she said, as if he were slow and should've known that all along. "But I'm not sure it'll help." She looked a bit sad when she said, "You need a real maester."

It hadn't occurred to him that it was that bad. Yeah, it hurt, but wouldn't it heal eventually?

"Maybe when Jon comes back we can raid the cornucopia. Sometimes they have medicine in there," he said, thoughtfully.

"Jon?" she asked.

"The tribute from the North?" Theon supplied. "He's the one who pulled me from the fire."

Again, she looked sad. Then she said, "Oh, I'm so sorry." He didn't know what she meant. Sorry for what? He couldn't figure out why she would care so much. "He's dead," she whispered.

Her words didn't make any sense to him. Jon was dead? But Jon was like Lord Stark, always pointing out what Theon did wrong and looking at him suspiciously. Part of him didn't think that Jon could die. Jon would be around forever—to irritate Theon. He didn't know what to say.

"I'll go look for a beehive," Jeyne said, quietly, leaving him alone with his thoughts.


	8. ELINOR

Every one of Elinor's instincts was telling her to run, flee, hide, but Meera told her to stay put, watch and learn. They had a system now. Roslin's bad leg made it hard for her to move around quickly, even with the walking stick Meera found for her, so she stayed in a tall tree, wearing the night-vision goggles. She relayed signals to Elinor, who relayed them to Meera. Elinor had thought she had no useful talents, but it turned out her years of hawking with Margaery taught her a myriad of realistic bird calls.

Meera did the real scary work though—shadowing the careers. It was only fair because it had been her idea. She was convinced that Shireen Baratheon, the female tribute from the Stormlands was in danger. The girl was sickly even before the Hunger Games began and Joffrey (who was a former Baratheon himself) had it in for her. Meera wanted to find her and protect her before Joffrey could do her harm.

The three girls had no luck finding her on their own, which was odd because Meera was a very good tracker for the most part. So now they spied on the career tributes, watching what they did and waiting, hoping to find Shireen before they did.

Tonight Joffrey and Waymar were out looking for other tributes to kill, while Benfrey waited back at the camp. Joffrey was always in charge; he never stayed behind. Elinor wasn't sure why the other two listened to him because he was younger and not as good a fighter. But then, she wasn't sure why she listened to Meera sometimes either. Staying near the people who wanted her dead seemed an outrageous idea.

Roslin made a noise. Elinor had to stop at think about what birdcall it was supposed to be. Was that the one that meant the careers were on the move or the one that meant she had seen something? All of Roslin's birdcalls sounded like a strangled chicken, so it was hard to tell. Then the noise came again, more urgently. Elinor hesitated. She didn't know what to do. Should she go check on Roslin? Or would that leave Meera at the mercy of the careers? She made the call that meant "danger – come back," so Meera would return, even though she was not sure what was going on with Roslin. Then she hurried back toward the big tree where Roslin was supposed to wait.

She wasn't yet halfway back when she knew there truly was danger. All the animals were all awake. Some were running in the other direction, when Elinor knew they should've been asleep in their dens. "Roslin!" she called, frightened. "Roslin!"

"Over here! Hurry!" Roslin was limping toward Elinor at a frantic pace. Her leg looked rickety and painful. Elinor rushed to her side and let Roslin lean on her.

"What's going on?" Elinor asked.

Roslin was breathing heavily—both from running and from fear. "I wasn't sure. Can they do that? I mean, I guess so!" She was talking to herself.

Elinor wanted to shake her and say "What!? What?!" but she didn't. Roslin turned and looked at her with wide, fearful eyes. "Mammoths," she said. "I think they were mammoths."

"Mammoths?" Elinor repeated incredulously. But mammoths weren't real were they? Her brain spun. Sometimes, in the Hunger Games they introduced obstacles that all the tributes had to deal with. Once she had seen the Gamemakers manufacture a wall of fire that chased after the contestants. She supposed they could release strange animals to, but the Gamemakers only intervened if they thought the Games were getting too boring--

"Oh gods!" she shrieked. The last death had been more than 24 hours prior! They were boring the Gamemakers and now they were all going to pay. "Where's Meera?" They had to get out of there! They had to find somewhere to hide! There was a mountainous region toward the edge of the arena. It was far but if they could make it, then she doubted the mammoths could climb.

Elinor struggled to make Roslin move faster, but it was impossible. She was hurt and Elinor wasn't strong enough to carry her. Between the fear and frustration, she was about at her wit's end when Meera came crashing through the trees. "What's wrong?" she asked. The other two girls shrieked and talked over her, but eventually they got the "mammoths" point across to Meera, who snatched the night vision goggles and quickly climbed a tree to look.

"There's one coming this way," she said, breathing heavily. "It's possible they were drugged, same as the bear that went after Elinor."

Oh, great, Elinor thought, because mammoths weren't bad enough; they had to be crazed ones as well.

Meera supported Roslin's other side, and the three of them started half-walking, half-running away. They had trouble at first, until Meera figured out they should count the steps aloud, so they went at the same pace and didn't rip Roslin apart. Elinor thought perhaps they would get away. Roslin had spotted the mammoths when they were far off and they were making good time now. Perhaps the mammoths would go after tributes that had been sleeping or hadn't spotted the creatures.

It was hard to remain optimistic when the ground began to shake underneath them.

"It's like it's following us," Roslin said, her voice quavering. "Like it knows where we are." Every time they changed course, the rumbling did as well.

"They want a death," breathed Elinor. Her own certainty scared her. "Keep the sponsors happy."

"No!" Meera gritted her teeth. "Faster! Leftrightleft!"

Elinor looked at Roslin, and Roslin looked back meaningfully at Elinor. "We should hide," said Elinor, because that was always her opinion. "Climb a tree or something, maybe it won't see us."

"Don't be stupid," said Meera. "Mammoths can knock over trees with their tusks. We have to find somewhere safer."

"But we'll be trampled before we get anywhere safe!" Elinor protested, her face red.

"Does anyone want to hear my idea?" Roslin asked, rather calmly.

"No!" Both Elinor and Meera cut her off. They already knew what Roslin's idea was and they didn't like it. Both girls put renewed effort into carrying Roslin across the forest floor. And they prayed, Elinor to the Seven and Meera to the old gods, that the mammoth would turn away and find easier prey.

Still the beast got closer.

They could hear the snuffling sounds it made, and see the trees crack like twigs behind them. Elinor tripped over a branch, falling on her face and scratching her hands and arms. There was a CRACK and Meera fell to the ground too. She didn't stay down too long, because Roslin's blow didn't have much force behind it, but it was enough. One was always a bit stunned when a friend hit you upside the head with a stick.

Then Elinor had a choice. She could run in the direction of the beast trying to kill her, after her wounded friend. Or she could help her other friend to her feet, and find somewhere to hide, before she realized what was happening. To Elinor's shame, she chose to hide. She found a tree, and forced Meera up it.

It was cold comfort to know she had been right. When the mammoths retreated after the cannon sounded; they had wanted a death. Just one.

Meera sobbed in the tree next to her. "I wanted to protect her," she wheezed. "I didn't want anyone to die."

Elinor reached an arm out to put it around her friend. "It's not your fault," she whispered , and meant it. It wasn't Meera's fault. She had tried, but it was hard when your life is just a game to someone else. She wanted to say something more meaningful, like "Roslin believed in you, Meera" or "You taught her to use her life to protect others," but it all sounded phony and wrong on her lips.

Instead she said, after a time, "Want to go look for Shireen now?"


	9. JEYNE

Jeyne went to sleep feeling pleased with herself. Not only had she found someone to team up with, if you looked at it a certain way, she was the strong one. She had found enough honey to cover Theon's back and used scraps of her dress to bind the worst of it. Then she had even managed to find a tree large enough for both of them to sleep in. It wasn't very comfortable worrying about falling to your death but it was better than facing the dangers of the ground. Jeyne rather liked her tree. It was an old weirwood. No one had carved a face in it, but she still felt like he was watching over her.

She hoped Theon would feel better tomorrow. His hands were so burned it was hard for him to hold his bow. Even so he had shot a rabbit after a couple tries. He cursed about how long it took but Jeyne didn't mind. She found that if she didn't listen to him, he wasn't half so irritating. And it was the first time she'd had meat since the Hunger Games had begun.

She still had the warm glow of accomplishment when she woke in the middle of the night. At first, she wasn't sure why she was awake; it was still dark out. Then she heard it: a low rumble. She sat up and peered out through the leaves.

The tree was on a tiny hill, so in one direction it overlooked a small field and on the other was forest. She wasn't sure which direction she was supposed to be looking. She could see nothing in the forest, so she turned (carefully, because any movement meant she could fall) to look down into the valley.

A small figure darted through the grass. Jeyne thought she was seeing things initially—just a shadow. But, no, it was still there, moving in a straight line across the field.

"Theon," she hissed. She felt bad to wake him. He should be resting and healing, but what if the figure was another tribute come to kill them? It looked vaguely humanoid.

He sat up with a jerk and nearly fell from his limb.

"Someone is out there." She pointed.

They both watched in absolute silence, barely daring to breathe lest it draw attention to them. After a time, a second figure emerged from the tree line, following the first.

"What are they running from?" Theon asked.

Jeyne had not realized they were running from something at all. She had assumed the one was chasing the other. But she saw that he was right. As they got closer, she could see the second figure kept glancing over its shoulder like it expected something was on its heels.

Then the forest erupted. Something huge and shaggy tore through the trees, swatting them aside like they were tourney swords. Jeyne couldn't help it; she screamed.

Theon grabbed his bow and leapt from the tree with dexterity she didn't know he possessed. Jeyne clutched her branch tighter, for some reason she didn't want to leave the tree even though she knew she should run. It was her safety blanket.

In the distance, a cannon sounded. Jeyne jumped. She looked at the two figures, then at Theon and herself. They were all still moving. Still alive. She didn't understand? Why the cannon? Then, she connected it. Some other tribute in another part of the arena had been trampled. The mammoth shied, obviously spooked by the cannon blast. It danced in place, confused and frightened. Then it changed course and turned around the way it came, leaving a trail of debris in its wake that looked like a tornado had hit the arena.

Jeyne leaned her head against the tree and breathed in the sweet smell of its bark. It wasn't coming this way. They were safe.

But Theon did not put down his bow. He still pointed it, ready to fire at any moment. The other two tributes were still climbing the hill, coming toward them. Jeyne grabbed her things and hopped down to get a better view. After a few moments she recognized them: Shireen Baratheon and Joffrey Hill. He was chasing her, with a sword in his hand. Shireen looked like she was about to fall over, perhaps running from the mammoth had taken a lot out of her. But Joffrey had a mean gleam in his eye, as though he thought this would be a good time to off her.

Neither of them noticed Jeyne and Theon even though they were practically on top of each other now. She didn't care that Joffrey was the other tribute from her district; there was something about him she didn't trust. She was about to tell Theon to shoot Joffrey when he loosed the arrow on his own. Maybe he knew Joffrey was the biggest threat now; Shireen was just a sick, little girl.

The moment the arrow flew, Jeyne knew it was wrong. Theon had gotten better with practice, but the arrow fell too soon and hit the blonde boy in the meaty part of his thigh, instead of the vital organ Theon had intended. He swore and reached for another arrow, but it was too late; Joffrey had noticed them now.

Joffrey's face purpled with rage. If Jeyne had thought him mean before, now he looked downright sadistic. He charged at Theon with his sword raised, screaming something unintelligible. Even weak, Theon had time to dodge the blow, and he tripped Joffrey, so they both landed on the ground in a heap.

It was bad. Theon was an archer, but he could not get off a shot at such close range, and he was injured. Jeyne grabbed her knife, intending to help, but it was difficult to tell who was who when they were rolling on the ground like that. She did not want to stab Theon by mistake. He already had enough wounds. Joffrey knocked Theon's head against the hard ground and sat on top of him. Jeyne winced at the sound, but rejoiced because now she had a clear shot at Joffrey. If he had noticed her at all, he had written her off as a non-threat.

She snuck up behind him and grabbed his chin with one hand and slashed across his throat with the other. Killing someone was more difficult than it looked. Joffrey jerked his arms wildly and tried to bite her hand. She hadn't cut deep enough. Theon groaned at the movement and Jeyne realized he was bleeding. With new anger fueling her this time, she tried again to slit Joffrey's throat with more force.

She knew she had done it when he went limp in her arms. She felt warm which was a nice change from the freezing cold of the arena nights until she realized it was because she was covered in fresh blood. It was everywhere, pooling on her dress and soaking her hands like in a metaphor. She wretched and dropped the knife, disgusted.

Theon groaned again and she almost ran, thinking of Gysella and how she had died. With effort, Jeyned talked herself into rolling Joffrey's body off of Theon. He did not look well. He had new defensive wounds on his face and hands. Worst of all, Joffrey's sword was in his stomach. When Jeyne realized she should kill him too and it made her vomit for true.

She hadn't wanted to kill anyone. Now she'd have the highest death count of all the tributes! She'd be favored to win for sure. The thought almost made her laugh. Almost.

Why was she doing this? She killed Joffrey to save Theon but now he was dying too. What good was any of it? She had just wanted to help someone. To feel useful. That way, when she went, her parents would not be ashamed of her.

Jeyne went back and fetched the knife. Theon was not making any noises anymore but his chest rose and fell ever so slightly. She hesitated. This time she found she could not administer the "mercy." No, she thought, let the gods take him. She would have rather put the knife in her own heart.

She was considering it too, when a small voice called out, "Are you going to hurt me?"

Jeyne turned. Shireen. She had forgotten all about her. The girl was so tiny and so scared, Jeyne could almost forget everything except her desire to hug Shireen and comfort her. "No," she said, truly, "I'm not going to hurt you."

She got to her feet and then took Shireen's hand. They took Theon's cloak and wrapped up the knife, the sword and the bow, only because they knew they could not leave such weapons behind. Everything else she left—including the leftover rabbit Theon had shot just earlier that evening.

As they walked down the hill into the valley, two cannons sounded.


	10. BENFREY

It was Ben's turn to sleep. He was glad to lay down because he was sick of listening to stupid Joffrey and Waymar's stupid voices. They both bossed Ben around. He hated it. Joffrey was a bastard but he acted like he were the trueborn heir he used to be. Waymar wasn't much better, even though he was just some younger son from some stupid house in the Vale no one had ever heard of.

Ben was a _Frey_ \--the trueborn son of the Lord of the Crossing. They should show him more respect. They'd learn. Ben had decided he'd kill them as soon as the other tributes were out of the way. Joff was too impulsive and reckless while Waymar was unwilling to get his hands dirty. They'd be sorry once Benfrey shoved his bad-ass spikey mace in their _faces_.

… It was getting harder to wait, though.

Benfrey nearly ended Waymar Royce's useless life the moment he woke Ben from slumber. Then he pointed to the sky, and Ben's anger subsided. The dragons were coming out again. They'd see the faces in the sky again and find out who died yesterday. There had been a mammoth attack the previous evening. Three cannons had gone off. That meant three tributes were dead.

Joffrey Hill hadn't returned. He told them that he was going to kill his "cousin" Shireen. After some asshole stole their stuff earlier in the games, they could no longer leave it unattended so two of them stayed behind. Waymar and Benfrey weren't sure if Joffrey was dead or if he was just being a jerk. Ben supposed he could pull off both at the same time.

The dragon rose higher into the air. Even from the ground, the flapping of their leathery wings could be heard. Dragons creeped Ben out. They didn't look _right_. They were like the kind of ugly swamp lizards you'd crush against a rock with your fist but _bigger_. Ben refused to die in this arena, mostly because he hated to lose but also because he didn't want those gross things touching his skin. He shuddered.

The dragon held a LED screen from its claws. It buzzed to life. The first face that appeared was Joffrey Hill's.

"Oh snap!" cried Waymar, laughing "You owe me a silver stag!"

Benfrey Frey frowned. He hated to lose. Should he kill Waymar Royce now? Without Joffrey, it was only the two of them. Might be safer to go out on his own now without having to worry about Waymar at his back. Also, he wouldn't have to hear him gloat about the stupid silver stag. How was he supposed to claim those winnings? No matter what, at least one of them would be dead before this was over. Royce was such an idiot.

The next face was Theon Greyjoy. Ben nearly killed himself laughing. Royce had claimed to have killed Greyjoy himself in the cornucopia melee. The other boy purpled with rage.

Finally Roslin's face appeared. Ben stopped laughing abruptly.

Benfrey wasn't sure how he felt about his sister's death. They hadn't been _that_ close. But then, he didn't like the idea of someone like Joffrey or Theon getting the kill though. Those idiots killing a Frey? It was all wrong. It should've been him.

 _He_ was supposed to kill Roslin. Black Walder was the only other Frey to have been picked for the Hunger Games and he was Ben's mentor (and Roslin's too). During the training sessions the two of them had decided it would be best if Ben killed Roslin in the melee. Only one of them could live and Ben was stronger. It was just right that Roslin should go early, it'd be a mercy for her and a step toward victory for him.

Then the wildfire had gone up and everything went to Hell.

Ben was brooding about his sister when the fight broke out. Later he'd be sorry he let himself get distracted, because otherwise no way would _Waymar Royce_ have been able to get the jump on him...


	11. SARELLA

Sarella Sand waited to die.

So far, she was fine and she _supposed_ that was a good thing. She looked down at the remaining berries in her hand and decided she might as well eat the rest. If she was going to die, it'd be better to do so on a full stomach.

When she was very young the first Hunger Games she had ever seen was the one that came to be known as the "Poisoned Games". That year, every living thing in the arena--from the plants to the animals--was poisonous. Only the food provided in the Cornucopia was edible. A Career who hoarded everything for himself had won that year, though Sarella had rooted for a poor girl from the Westerlands who ate nothing but tree bark. She was too weak to put up much of a fight in the end.

Sarella's older sister, Tyene, described to her how each poison worked and how it felt when your organs shut down. Sarella had nightmares for weeks. She told herself that if she were ever picked for the Hunger Games she'd never eat anything she wasn't absolutely sure was safe. But after only a few days of hunger, her resolve had crumbled. A quick death from poison had begun to seem preferable to slowly wasting away to music of the rumbling of her stomach.

Because of the wildfire, Sarella hadn't been able to grab anything from the Cornucopia. Not the bow and arrows she desperately wanted, and certainly not any food. Worse, after the melee she had vomited up the big breakfast she'd had in preparation for the games. Had she had enough foresight to conserve her energy after that? No, of course not. Her instincts told her to run from the fire, and run she had—to the very edge of the arena where a force field kept her from fleeing further.

Here, piles of rock that had been pulled up to build the rest of the arena were stacked atop each other. Sarella wouldn't call it a mountain—it was nothing compared to the Boneway—but it was higher ground and she felt safer knowing no one could climb up and reach her without sending small stones skidding down the hillside and alerting her. She knew this because when she first climbed up, the little rocks shifted and cut into her already burned feet. There was no way up without upsetting them—she had looked. The only thing she could do was bandage her feet as best she could and bear the pain. Pus oozed from her burn blisters. It had been disgusting but eventually she got to the top and collapsed.

She had slept for days, only waking when she heard the death canon go off. Even then she hadn't been able to rouse herself to see who had died. She went right on sleeping until hunger woke her and all she could find was one spindly berry bush growing improbably through the rocks. It was possible the Gamemakers had put it there just to tempt her into making a mistake but at that point she didn't care anymore. She quickly downed a handful and waited.

If the berries were deadly, they weren't working very quickly. She wished she could talk to her father or Tyene and ask them if the berries were some plant they knew. She supposed if she were going to die she would've done it by now. Even if she were dying, there wasn't much she could do about it; she'd already eaten them and she felt so much better with something in her stomach.

So she sat back into her little hidey hole and thought about what to do next. She desperately wanted to stay here for the duration. It felt safe. She had lain here, practically unconscious, for days and no one had molested her. She bet that no other place in the arena afforded such protection. But, aside from the one berry bush, there was no food. Water was an even bigger problem. She supposed she could set snares at the forest floor, and hope to catch some game. But then she would have to move around and check them, leaving her hideout abandoned and unguarded.

Sarella wasn't stupid enough for that, though she wished she were; that would make everything easier.

It was beginning to get dark. She decided it would be foolish to leave now, especially since she'd just what amounted to a "big" meal here in the arena. She could last until morning. By then maybe she'd have thought up a new strategy.

She sat and stared out at the landscape. It didn't feel friendly. Every movement of tree branches in the wind made her jump, thinking of Careers coming to get her or animals sent to eat her. It was strange that she had been able to sleep for so long. The only explanation was that there had been enough action among the other tributes to keep the viewers in King's Landing interested. They certainly hadn't been watching her nap. She wondered what horrors the other tributes had experienced and, for that matter, how many of them had died. She knew the canon had sounded several times but she couldn't remember exactly how many. Everything was fuzzy from sleep.

When the sun was completely down, the air got so cold that she wondered how she had survived without a blanket. Perhaps she had been feverish?

Then the dragon's form climbed into the sky. Sarella watched it with awe. They had studied dragons in the Citadel, but she had never seen one in person until she had been chosen for the Hunger Games. So far, it was the only good thing about being reaped. It was amazing to see them fly. They were so large, it didn't look like they should be able to. It filled her with wonder. It must be amazing to ride a dragon, though Sarella knew the only way she'd ever get the chance was if she won the Hunger Games.

The screen in the dragon's claws lit up and Sarella sat forwarded to get a better look. She didn't know how many tributes were gone, but this would give her a first hint as to what she was up against. The first face that appeared was Joffrey Hill's. Sarella couldn't pretend to be sad about that. Even if her family didn't hate the Lannisters, Joffrey had been a little shit. She was glad he wouldn't win the Hunger Games.

Then Theon Greyjoy's face appeared. Sarella started in surprise. She had seen him with his cloak on fire. She assumed he was dead. Yet, somehow he had survived. That made her wonder if the bow he had wrested from her had survived as well. If it was still out there…

Sarella was on her feet. The dragons left prints when they landed. And they only landed to collect the dead tributes. She could see one print still, but there wasn't enough light to see any further. In the morning, maybe she'd have a better view. She could map out the places the dragons had landed and go to all of them. If Theon still had the bow it would be at one of those sites. And if she could find the bow…

If she could find the bow, then she could _win_.


	12. MEERA

Someone was following them. Meera had noticed awhile ago. She didn't want to alarm Elinor. They were technically searching the arena for Shireen Baratheon, but Meera and Elinor had been wandering aimlessly for awhile now. She wasn't sure who the tail was—probably one of the careers, Benfrey or Waymar. She was certain it was only one person following them, so she assumed they had split up following the death of Joffrey Hill, but she couldn't be certain.

She had already found herself thinking about Benfrey Frey a lot that day, so she couldn't stop him from popping into her thoughts now that he might be so near. Last night, his sister, Roslin, had died. Meera knew it was the Gamemakers and their stupid mammoths that had killed Roslin, but she could not help blaming Benfrey. On the very first day, he immediately tried to kill his sister; Meera could not get over that. What kind of person tried to kill their sister? If Jojen had been picked as the male tribute from the North, Meera would have wanted him to win. She'd probably help him out along the way—sometimes Jojen needed her help, but once they were the final two she would stab herself with her own frog spear so that he could be the victor. She knew Jojen would probably try to do the same for her. So she really didn't understand how Benfrey Frey could feel differently. She thought there must be something wrong with him.

No wonder her people had warred with the Freys for centuries. Were people really such monsters outside the Neck? No, she reminded herself. At the reaping, Jon Snow had been awfully concerned about his sister, Arya. And Roslin had gone to her grave to save her and Elinor. It wasn't people in general—it was Benfrey and the careers. They ruined it for everyone.

In Meera's ideal world, all of the remaining tributes would work together. It wouldn't be utopia, because the Gamemakers would always throw obstacles into their paths. People would surely die (unless it went on long enough that the Gamemakers got sick of them, which Meera estimated would take at least a year until the next reaping occurred). At least then the deaths would be on the Gamemakers's heads—not Meera's, or anyone else's. It wouldn't be so terrible.

But Roslin had been killed by the Gamemakers and Meera still felt _terrible_ , like she should've done more to protect her.

She needed to revise her strategy. Maybe she should be more aggressive. Maybe someone like Benfrey didn't deserve to live, yet alone deserve to win. Maybe she should weed out these treacherous tributes so the rest of them won't have to constantly watch their backs.

Now one of them was following her. She wondered if she could she do it? Could she strike first? She wasn't sure. She wondered what her father would do in her situation. She wished she could get his counsel. Or anyone's counsel, really. It was awful lonely in the arena, even with Elinor at her side.

"Meera?" said Elinor, drawing her out of her thoughts. "Is that what I think it is?" She pointed a few yards in front of them.

Meera had grown up in a bog. The very first thing she remembered learning from her father was how to identify quicksand and avoid it. All the crannogmen warned their children with tales of men who got trapped in the quicksand and drown when the tide came in. Her father had told her that men who weren't from the Neck often couldn't identify it—but Elinor was proving to be more and more savvy in the ways of the wild. She thought of herself as completely helpless and Meera would never understand why the southron lords told their daughters they were worthless.

"Yes," Meera answered. "Quicksand."

It gave her an idea though. The Freys had coveted the Neck for centuries. They often tried to invade the Neck. Weeks later, scouts would find skeletons wearing the two towers badge still stuck in the mud. One of her favorite games when she was young was to try and find shields or other strange objects in the bog. Had anyone ever taught Benfrey Frey what quicksand looked like?

She doubted it.

She motioned for Elinor to leap across. Then Meera placed one obvious footprint right where the quicksand began. She drew her foot back before it got sucked down into the muck. Then she leaped across, as Elinor had done, and placed another after it. The footsteps were awkwardly placed, but if you looked quickly you would never tell they weren't normal prints.

"I bet the Gamemakers put it there on purpose," Elinor whispered, as Meera led her behind a bush to wait and watch. "Wait, why are we hiding? What if no one comes?"

"Someone is following us," Meera whispered back.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Elinor asked, hurt.

"I'm sorry," Meera replied, and she was. "I was distracted… about Roslin, and I didn't notice until a few moments ago."

"Who is it?" Elinor asked. "Is it Benfrey?"

"I don't know. We're about to find out."

As if on cue, the boy ambled through the forest. Merra supposed he was trying to soften his footsteps, but he wasn't trying hard enough. His heavy steps only made it that much worse when he fell, straight into the quicksand, without even hesitating. He let out a yelp at the same time Elinor clapped her hand over her mouth excitedly.

"We did it!" she hissed.

They had. Except, it wasn't Benfrey Frey. It was the other one—Waymar Royce. Meera wasn't sure what to do. She had expected Benfrey, even though she had known it could just as easily be Waymar. "What do we do now?" she asked.

Elinor looked surprised that Meera was asking _her_. They both turned and watched Waymar struggle in the muck for a time. He was going about it all wrong. All the kids in the Neck knew you had to spread out your weight—like walking on snow—or else you'd fall in deeper. It was best to splay out and drag yourself along, not try to climb out and walk normally.

"I guess we should find out what he knows?" suggested Elinor. "Where's Benfrey? What food does he have?" She paused. "I mean, it looks like he's trapped."

Meera nodded, glad the other girl didn't expect her to kill Waymar. She was once again reminded what a good decision it had been to befriend Elinor. She was someone worth teaming up with; she was a good person.

The pair of them snuck out from their hiding place and approached the career warily. He watched them approach with fury written on his face.

"I don't think we've been properly introduced," Elinor said wryly. "I'm Elinor of House Tyrell and this is Meera Reed." The boy said nothing, just sulked in his mud pit. "You must be Waymar Royce."

Royce didn't respond. How rude of hm. He seemed to be trying to climb out of the hole again. He jerked his arm in their direction. Meera felt cool mud slap her in the face. Elinor doubled over and it took Meera a moment to realize there was red blood mixed with the brown mud.

"It was a knife," she wheezed, producing the offending weapon. "Hit me in my hip." Meera helped her to sit on the ground, worriedly looking for something to bind the injury with. "I'm fine, Meera, really," Elinor said.

She whirled on Waymar Royce, holding up her frog spear as if to strike him."What good did you think that would do?" she demanded.

He shrugged, trying to look bored, but covered in much he just looked stupid. "I thought I'd at least take one of you out with me."

"We weren't going to kill you!" Elinor growled. "And you have lousy aim anyhow."

"Of course you were going to kill me," the boy from the Vale replied. "That's what we're here for."

Meera and Elinor exchanged glances with one another.

"What happened to Benfrey Frey?" Meera asked, changing the topic. "You were working with him until yesterday."

"Alliances don't last in the arena," Royce said, looking at the two girls and smirking.

"Eventually you turn on one another." Elinor crossed her arms over her chest.

"Is he dead? I didn't hear a canon," Meera cried.

"No." Royce sounded sulky. "He got away."

"Do you know which way he went?" Meera asked.

"Why?" Royce replied.

It was Elinor, from her position on the forest floor, that spoke up. "His sister was a friend of ours and he tried to kill her. If you tell us which way he went, we might help you out of that hole."

Royce regarded them for some time. "I don't trust you," he said after the pause. "Why would you trust me?"

Elinor and Meera exchanged looks again, and Elinor shrugged. "Would you try to kill your sister?" Meera asked, finally.

"I don't have a sister," Royce replied, clearly confused by this line of questioning.

"Your mother then," Meera amended. "Would you kill your mother?"

"No," Royce said. "Kinslaying is an affront to both the old gods and the new."

Meera Reed lowered her frog spear. Perhaps he wasn't so bad.


	13. SHIREEN

Maester Cressen always said it was bad for Shireen to get upset. He told her once that stress exacerbated her greyscale. She remembered because she had to ask her father what "exacerbated" meant. Since her name had been picked in the reaping, Shireen had felt nothing but stress. Her skin was getting worse by the day.

That was why it was nice to have found Jeyne. The two of them slept in a tree together, and when Shireen got cold, Jeyne let her snuggle up close. If she closed her eyes, Shireen could pretend that Jeyne was her mother and that the howling of the wind was coming from the scary statues at Dragonstone.

But even though Jeyne trained with a maester, she wasn't Maester Cressen. She didn't know anything about greyscale. When Shireen had asked, Jeyne said she thought greyscale was when you changed a picture so it was black and white. She didn't know how to make Shireen better or even make it stop. The disease was advancing. It used to be just a patch on her face and neck, but it had snuck down her arm like a vine, and now she had trouble feeling her arm or moving it when she had to.

Shireen knew she was going to die. Soon the paralysis would creep from her arm to her chest and to her heart and lungs. Even if it didn't, there was small chance she could survive much longer in the arena. Jeyne had all these cool weapons, but she didn't know how to use them, not really. Shireen watched her practicing with the sword. Her aim was not very good, and she wasn't very strong. It'd be better if she could have used Theon's bow, but Jeyne couldn't hit anything and Shireen couldn't even pull it back.

"We need to be careful," Jeyne said, for the millionth time. "Leave no traces and be ready to run at all times."

They were ready to run. That was one thing Shireen was still good at. Her greyscale had never extended to her legs. Jeyne wasn't as fast as she was but she said that didn't matter. She made Shireen promise that if anyone attacked them she would run—and keep running even if Jeyne couldn't keep up. And Jeyne had given Shireen her knife, keeping Joffrey's sword and Theon's bow for herself. They probably should've left those weapons behind, since they couldn't use them, but they were afraid someone else would find them. There were only so many weapons in the arena after the fire. It wouldn't do to make things easier for the other tributes.

Shireen had never felt so close to her house's animal. The Baratheon banner had a stag on it. But Shireen was a girl, so she would be a doe. She was constantly alert, her ear twitching as she listened for danger. And she was ready to bolt at any moment—to run as fast as she could. If only she really were a deer, then the other tributes wouldn't recognize her and she wouldn't have to be so afraid all the time.

That was why she heard the crunch of branches first. It was barely noticeable but Shireen was on constant alert. She tugged at Jeyne's dress. The two of them listened. The noise came again. Footsteps. They were faint—someone was trying to be sneaky—but they were definitely footsteps. Jeyne unsheathed the sword and prodded Shireen.

"Run," she whispered.

Shireen did. She only got a short distance before she heard the fighting. Jeyne was trying to do battle? Shireen stopped. Why wasn't she running? Jeyne was no good with the sword! And if something happened to her, then what would happen to Shireen? She didn't want to be alone. Not again.

She knew she shouldn't turn back. She knew Jeyne wouldn't want her to turn back. But she did it anyway.

There was a large boy with a big, spiky mace standing across from Jeyne. She was hurt, bleeding from several tiny wounds that must have come from the mace. She had a strange look on her face, like she hated this boy more than anyone in the world. Shireen wasn't even sure Jeyne knew the boy. He was from the Riverlands—one of Walder Frey's sons. When would Jeyne have met him?

Frey brought the mace down and Jeyne blocked it with the sword. He continued to push the weapon down. She wasn't strong enough to hold him off forever. Shireen wasn't quite sure what to do. If Jeyne wasn't strong enough, then she certainly wasn't.

Then she remembered the knife.

If she could be quiet and sneak up behind him. Maybe she could stab him before he realized what was happening. Shireen crept forward. Neither Jeyne nor Frey seemed to see her. That was good. She didn't want to give herself away. Surprise was the only advantage she had.

Shireen crept up behind Benfrey Frey with her knife at the ready. The career was well provisioned. He had a thick leather vest to protect his chest. Shireen didn't think she could puncture it, so she aimed lower, toward the small of his back. She hoped she could sever something important, and she knew you would die if you were stabbed in the belly—so maybe if she got deep enough, she'd hit his guts.

She closed her eyes and jabbed.

Frey screamed, a good sign, as she had been worried she'd miss him entirely. So she opened her eyes and saw that the knife hadn't gone deep at all. There was blood, but no more than when she had cut herself in the kitchens one day. Frightened, Shireen pulled back , ready to stab at him again. This time she grabbed the knife with both hands, trying to get more force behind her attack. She only had one chance before he fought back.

Shireen's grip on the knife faltered. Her bad arm couldn't close properly around the hilt. Desperately, she tried to get a better handle on it. Frey was whirling around, his mace at the ready. With a cry, Shireen brought the knife down in his mid-section. This time, her desperation drove it deeper. But it was still not enough.

Benfrey backhanded her and knocked her to the ground, her knife falling into the dirt. She looked up at him as the mace hurtled toward her face. She had just enough time to shout "RUN!" at Jeyne Westerling, and hope that the older girl listened as she had not.


	14. SARELLA

Sarella was examining her third set of dragon prints when she heard the fighting. The dragons didn't leave much behind. They took the bodies and all the tributes' possessions into the air and only the deep gashes in the dirt really indicated that the dragons or the children had ever been there. She thought that was sort of unfair. They had killed these kids as much as anyone. The dragons should've gotten their hands (so to speak) dirty.

When the noises reached her, her first instinct was to hide. She didn't want to get involved in someone else's fight. But then she thought, maybe it would be good to see what kind of competition she was up against. Just watch, not get involved.

By the time she reached the fight, it was mostly over. A small figure (Sarella couldn't tell if it had been a boy or a girl) lay on the ground. She had seen dead bodies at the Citadel, during her studies of medicine. This one looked less like the corpses she had seen and more like a bug someone had squashed against a table. There was goo everywhere but she wasn't sure how so much could come from such a small body. She couldn't look at it, so she turned her attention to the other two.

A girl with curly hair had climbed up into a tree. Sarella could see the terror in her face. She kept looking at the other figure and shuddering. She wasn't crying though, not yet. She kept climbing the branches of the tree—higher and higher—with determination. Sarella wasn't sure why she was doing this. She should've run away instead of up. The boy would just follow her and eventually she would have nowhere left to go.

Then Sarella noticed that the boy was hurt. His injuries coupled with his heavy weapon and clothing made it impossible for him to climb the tree. He kept trying and falling to the ground with curses. Then he'd shout threats up at the girl in the tree.

"I'm going to smash your face in!"

Sarella rolled her eyes. That would be hard to do from that distance.

She'd never be able to explain why, but she began to climb a tree opposite the tree the other girl was climbing. Sarella had always been a good climber. There weren't trees like this in Dorne; there they were more leafy with fewer branches, but it wasn't hard to figure out. If she could climb straight up rock faces, she could do this. She didn't really have a plan for when she reached the top. In the back of her head, she thought it meant she would be safe from the boy and his mace. But once she got up there, she realized she was on the same level as the other girl.

Her eyes grew wide when she saw Sarella. She looked down at the boy, who had not yet noticed the second girl. Once it became clear that Sarella was not working with him and she relaxed a bit, but remained wary.

Sarella wanted to shout across the empty space and ask her who she was and how this had all happened. She still knew very little about what had happened in the arena while she had been asleep. She didn't know why she trusted the girl more than the boy. Maybe it was because the girl was the one in obvious distress, whose friend was dead. Or maybe it was because Sarella only had sisters and she was more used to girls. Whatever the cause, she wanted to help this girl.

She just didn't know how to do it without drawing the attention of the boy with the scary mace.

Sarella waved to the other girl, who nodded back in response. So they could see each other. That was good. She sat back into the crook of a branch and surveyed her options. There was a black, rotting knob in the tree. The only thing she could think to do was take the bindings off her burned feet and dip her finger into the rot—it felt like ash. Very slowly, stopping every line or so to get more black stuff, Sarella wrote out the words, "CAN YOU READ THIS?" Then she held it up.

The other girl looked at Sarella's message and then back down at the boy, circling the tree like an irritated dog that had chased a cat. For a moment, Sarella worried that she didn't understand. It was possible this girl was one of the smallfolk; in regions other than Dorne, people rarely taught their daughters to read. Sarella wasn't even sure where this girl was from.

After what seemed like forever the girl nodded her head deliberately.

Excited, Sarella immediately sat down and wrote on the binding that had been on her other foot. "DO YOU HAVE ANY WEAPONS?"

Again, the girl checked to see if the boy was watching. He seemed to attempting to build some kind of ladder out of fallen branches. Sarella almost laughed out loud. That was a good way to hurt yourself. Then the other girl reached into her pack and pulled out a large sword and the bow and arrows.

Sarella nearly fell out of the tree. The bow! She had been looking for it. Here she did something that she thought was stupid, trying to help this girl, and it was what brought her to it.

Excitedly, she gestured to the bow and made a shooting motion and pointed at herself. She meant to say "I AM AN ARCHER" but hoped it didn't come off as "I am a crazy person."

The girl regarded her for a long time. Then she turned, with the sword in her hand and began to carve into the tree. It took a moment for Sarella to realize she was writing from top to bottom not left to right (she didn't have that much room), but then the message became clear.

IF  
YOU  
KILL  
HIM  
YOU   
CAN  
HAVE  
IT.


	15. MEERA

Meera Reed sat on a log and stared at Waymar Royce. His attempts to get out of the quicksand were almost comical, but Meera didn't laugh. She just sat and watched; the force of her stare unnerved Royce but he tried to not show it. She wasn't sure what to do about him. She had wanted--no, she still wanted—-to form a group and fight their way out of the arena. She didn't want to play this stupid game. Royce was not terribly intelligent (he'd proven than in the few moments she'd known him), but he was bigger than her and he had weapons. He could be useful, if she could trust him. That was a big if.

She glanced over at Elinor, who was looking pale and trying to bind her knife wound as best she could. It was one thing for Meera to risk her own life—she was not afraid to die—but trusting Royce meant risking Elinor as well. Elinor was worth five Waymar Royces, as far as Meera was concerned.

Meera felt lucky to have found Roslin and Elinor. People in the Neck warned her that people from outside their bogs were not like them; they were dangerous. But Meera's father, Howland, said the big people were not all bad. He had been right. Roslin and Elinor could've been Meera's friends back at Greywater Watch. They could've been crannogmen. Okay, they'd have to learn how to hunt and wear less silly outfits, but they had the personality for it.

Waymar Royce though, she couldn't imagine him in the Neck. He acted so superior but what had he ever done to earn respect? The crannogmen would hate him. He couldn't even get out of some mud.

But... did that mean she _couldn't_ trust him? Should she kill him? Meera had killed plenty of animals but never a person before. If she and Elinor left, Waymar would be stuck in the bog. Wasn't that the same thing, though? He would starve, or someone else would get him. Would it be more merciful to kill him outright?

What would her father do? Meera did not know, and that distressed her.

"Meera..." Elinor moaned. "I don't feel so well."

Meera looked over at her friend. "What did you eat today? I can get more berries," she began. She stopped when she looked closer at the girl from the Reach. She _was_ pale. Too pale. She hadn't lost _that_ much blood when Waymar's knife hit her side. It had only been a glancing blow.

She whirled on Royce. "WHAT DID YOU DO?!"

He smirked, like he was so much smarter than her. "Nothing," he lied. "She's just weak..."

Elinor sat down, hard. She kicked up a cloud of pine needles as she fell. "Weak," Elinor repeated. It was more of a question than anything. Then she spoke again, her voice a whisper, but this time it was certain, "The knife was poisoned."

Meera screamed in frustration. She should have known. She should have done something the moment Elinor was hit. All that time the poison had been creeping through Elinor's veins; it was probably too late now. But Meera hadn't thought. She figured Waymar just missed. He was an idiot. Useless.

She had underestimated him.

Meera began to feel something she hadn't felt at all since her name had been reaped. Anger. Fury. This wasn't just a terrible situation—these were terrible people. It started with the Targaryens; the Mad King who found these games amusing was the worst. But it wasn't just him, it was all of them; everyone who watched and everyone who participated. Right down to Waymar Royce, who did just want they wanted and thought he was being clever. He should pay. They should all pay. For Elinor. For Roslin.

Meera Reed turned with the grace of a hunter. She raised her frog spear. She had killed creatures before, and she was good at it. She was swift, never prolonged the suffering. She jabbed her frog spear into Waymar Royce's eyes before he even knew what she intended. He had no chance to get his hands up to protect his face. Elinor didn't have time to make a sound; she just gaped and fell over backwards. She was too stunned and too weak to sit up again. She lay on the ground and waited for the poison to work.

Meera pulled the frog spear from Royce's skull, splattering blood and brain matter around her. She saw Elinor's body and screamed bloody murder.


	16. JEYNE

Jeyne's tree shook with every blow. It was not difficult to stay in place, but her teeth rattled so hard they were like to fall out. _It doesn't matter_ , she told herself when she first realized that Benfrey was going to attempt to chop her tree down. Benfrey did not have an axe—he had a mace. He did damage to the tree with every blow, but more often than not, the mace got stuck in the trunk and Benfrey would curse and shout while he tried to pry it loose. It was slow going. _Very_ slow going.

 _The Dornish girl will come up with a plan any moment_ , Jeyne thought. But then the sun moved across the sky and Jeyne started to lose hope. Had the Dornish girl abandoned her? Jeyne had thought the promise of the bow and arrows was enough to entice her to her cause, but perhaps it would be easier to take the bow from Jeyne's corpse than to fight Benfrey for it.

Someone would come though. Someone had to come. Benfrey was making too much noise. If the Dornish girl wasn't willing to kill him, then surely one of the other tributes would. Perhaps that Waymar Royce; Jeyne saw that Benfrey and Royce seemed to have a falling out. They were not together anymore.

But no one came. Jeyne began to despair. She couldn't help but look over at Shireen's tiny body every now and again and think the worst.

 _He's going to knock the tree down eventually,_ she worried. _I will be crushed underneath it when it falls._

She knew she couldn't climb down—not with him down there. She couldn't get close enough to another tree to swing across the branches either. She was stuck up here. If only Benfrey took the _logical_ route and tried to starve her out of the tree then she would have more time to think, more time to plan.

 _You have to be calm_ , she told herself. _If you panic, you will die._

Jeyne tried to think. Perhaps if Benfrey did fell the tree, she could be ready and jump from it as it neared the ground. She would probably injure her legs on the landing, but so long as she could run faster than Benfrey, it wouldn't matter. And Benfrey wasn't in a state to be running long distances. He was sweating a lot and now she could hear his heavy breathing all the way up on her branch. Chopping at the tree had taken a lot out of him. She could beat him in a footrace…

… if she didn't break her legs in the fall.

But there wasn't anything to be done about it. That was the only plan she could think of. She reached out and picked some leaves off a branch and stuffed them in her mouth. They tasted horrible, like wet parchment, but she didn't want to be light-headed from hunger when she ran. She wanted to be prepared for anything.

Jeyne was not prepared to hear the death cannon go off. It startled her so, that she nearly lost her grip on the tree. Benfrey looked up gleefully when he saw her nearly fall, and he began to chop away with renewed vigor. Obviously, he didn't care if another tribute was dead.

 _That only leaves five_ , Jeyne thought. She chewed on her lip. There weren't many left now. It wouldn't be long until the Hunger Games were over. She looked over at Shireen's body again.

This time she was surprised to see movement. Jeyne held her breath. Was it Waymar Royce come to help Benfrey?

The Dornish girl emerged from the shadows of the trees like a cat. Jeyne would not have noticed her at all if she hadn't been looking at Shireen. The girl made no sound. In her hand, she carried long stick sharpened to a point—a spear. She hadn't had that before, Jeyne remembered. Perhaps she had simply been sharpening it all this time? Hope swelled within her.

But it was a crude implement; it would be no match for Benfrey's mace. He couldn't see her. Not until it was too late. The girl was quiet, that was good, but Jeyne would have to draw his attention.

She dropped one hand out into the open air and cried "Oooh!" like she had lost her grip. Benfrey looked up at her with a malicious gleam in his eyes.

 _Yes, that's right, stupid,_ Jeyne thought. _I might fall so watch me!_

Meanwhile the Dornish girl crept up behind him. Jeyne had to keep herself from grinning; she had to appear terrified or Benfrey would know something was wrong.

A loud blast echoed throughout the arena. The cannon again. Jeyne jumped. She felt her grip loosen and watched her other hand—the one that had been dangling in midair for Benfrey's benefit—grab desperately for any purchase.

It found none.

And then Jeyne was falling. She felt branches smack the back of her head and her legs but they went by so fast, she couldn't grab hold. She barely had time to cry out before her body slammed into the ground. Everything shook. For a moment Jeyne was simply dazed. She stared up at the blue sky, not believing that she had fallen. Not now.

 _Run!_ the planning side of her brain shouted. She had intended to run when she hit the ground, to get away from Benfrey, but now she found that her legs simply would not move. She turned her head to the side—the pain was agonizing, like she was ripping her neck from her shoulders—and she saw two figures running toward her instead.

Jeyne had been right; Benfrey was not fit for running. The Dornish girl easily surpassed him, and raced to Jeyne's side. At first, Jeyne couldn't figure out why the girl wasn't running the opposite direction—away from Benfrey--and then she remembered the bow. It had been in her pack and the pack had fallen with her, but rolled to one side away from Jeyne's body.

The Dornish girl flung herself at the bag. But Benfrey was upon them now, and he raised his mace in the air, ready to strike at the Dornish girl. Jeyne tried to cry out a warning but all that came out was a pained moan.

But it didn't matter. The Dornish girl let the arrow fly faster than Jeyne would've thought possible. And despite the chaos, even though she didn't have time to aim properly, the arrow went straight through Benfrey Frey's throat. The feathers on the butt of the arrow touched his chin, like a colorful Tyroshi beard. He made a wet gurgling sound and then fell backward to the ground and did not get up.

Jeyne closed her eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn't realized how terrified she had been of him until the icy fear was no longer gripping her heart. She wasn't afraid anymore. The sun was warm on her face and the breeze blew gently through the trees. Jeyne thought she would just lay here for awhile. It was peaceful.

She may have passed out then, she wasn't sure. When she opened her eyes again, the Dornish girl was holding Jeyne's hand and crying.

"Can you move?" she asked, when she saw that Jeyne's eyes were open.

Jeyne could not. Her body was broken. It no longer listened to her. She remembered Gysella, the tribute from the Iron Islands. She had been wounded too and had asked Jeyne for the gift of mercy. That was what had started it all, until then Jeyne had been too afraid to do anything. She had assumed she would die early on, like her mother told her she would.

A cannon sounded. Jeyne knew that one was for Benfrey. Three had gone off in the last few minutes, and another blast was coming. _Only three now_ ; Jeyne Westerling had made it further than she ever dared hope.

She opened her mouth. Blood-tinged foam came out instead of words. Jeyne swallowed and tried again. She had a favor to ask.


	17. SARELLA

"This is truly a historic moment!" a cheery voice rang out through the entire arena. Sarella looked around; it seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. She recognized it from previous years—it was the Host of the Hunger Games. Sometimes he came on and made announcements, usually he invited the tributes to a great feast. The feast was always a ploy to draw the hungry contestants back to the Cornucopia, and another melee. Sarella was surprised to hear his voice; she had assumed this year they had all killed each other too quickly for that.

"Westeros has held over **seventy** Hunger Games and this is the first final three composed entirely of female tributes!" he cheered. "I guess you've proven that you really _can_ keep up with the boys sometimes."

Sarella found his relentlessly upbeat voice infuriating, especially since the third-place tribute, poor Jeyne, was _dying_ as he spoke. And Sarella had always believed that women were superior to men anyway.

She chose to ignore him. "Are you ready?" she asked Jeyne.

"I'm trying to think… of brilliant last words," she wheezed. "I haven't got any. Just… thanks for killing Benfrey… for this…"

Sarella nodded. She waited, but Jeyne didn't have any words left in her so she drew her bow and ended it.

"Oh!" said the Host. "Make that the final _two_ contestants." He laughed, that canned game show host laugh. Sarella wished he were in the arena so she could have shot him instead. A cannon sounded.

"Aerys, King of the Seven Kingdoms, has declared that our final two are _required_ to present themselves at the Cornucopia by sundown for a big surprise. That is all. Good luck!" Sarella could almost see him give a jaunty wave.

The Host's voice faded away and left Sarella alone in the arena. She had no choice but to return to the Cornucopia. She knew it would be over tonight. Either she would be going home, or she would be going to the gods. So she tried not to think about it. Instead, she packed her pack, re-wrapped her feet (it felt wrong to take Jeyne's shoes) and tried not to look at the three dead bodies around her. Then she set off.

It made no sense. The Host had not promised food or reward. He hadn't threatened what would happen if they didn't show up. _No reason_. Normally the feasts were called when the tributes holed up or got spaced out. If the Hunger Games got boring, the feast was the solution. But there had been no shortage of action this day, why force a confrontation?

… Unless the Gamemakers believed Sarella and the other girl wouldn't fight otherwise. But Sarella didn't have any reason to go easy on this other girl. She was from the North, she knew that much, but they didn't know each other and hadn't crossed paths in the arena. Maybe it was because Sarella had run away for so many days? It made no sense.

When Sarella arrived back at the Cornucopia, she remained hidden in the trees for some time. The melted husk of the first Cornucopia had been replaced by a shiny new gold one. Instead was a black box. Sarella couldn't tell what it was. It looked like a really big television set. She didn't see the other tribute, but she didn't dare reveal herself. It was best to be cautious. Sarella had no idea what this other girl had done to survive, who she had killed. She had to prepare for the worst.

When the other girl appeared, Sarella was glad she was wary. The northern girl had a wild look about her. _Battle fever_ , Sarella thought. That's what her father called it when soldiers lost control. Her green eyes were fierce and angry. Before Sarella realized what she was doing, she had crouched down and let an arrow fly. Her self-preservation instincts were strong thanks to these games.

The other tribute surprised her by getting her weapon—a trident?—up fast enough to block the arrow. It collided with one of the prongs, and fell uselessly to the ground. No one had been able to dodge Sarella's shooting since she was little. The crannogman was small but she was _fast_. She was hidden behind a tree before Sarella could notch another arrow.

"Now, now, enough of that," said the voice of the Host. Sarella suddenly felt a force field—the same kind used at the beginning of the games—holding her in place.

"These games have gone by so quickly," he continued. "I'm afraid our audience in King's Landing hasn't had the chance to get to know our final two."

 _Oh,_ Sarella thought, _this is for dramatic effect._ It made her nervous. Appealing to the audience was part of the game she hadn't bothered with, since staying alive was difficult enough. She really didn't need an added element of complexity at this point. It also made her sick to think of people watching and cheering as Jeyne and the others died.

The black box that Sarella thought was a large television turned out to be just that. It lit up blue and flickered to life. The smiling face of the Host appeared. "Only two tributes are left in the 72nd Hunger Games. At the beginning of our program, I went to the homes of each of the tributes to find out what they were fighting for. Let's see if we can learn anything about what drives these two competitors."

So he had interviewed the parents of all sixteen of them. Sarella wondered if that ever dampened the cheery mood of the Host, that fifteen of the sixteen children would die and that he would have to shake their parent's hands and pretend everything was all right.

Sunspear and the Water Gardens appeared on the screen; Sarella's stomach sank. It was cruel to remind her of home now; it felt so far away. The camera fixed on her father's face. He smiled and announced he was confident that Sarella would win. _Unbowed, unbent, unbroken,_ Sarella thought. But she could see the anger in his eyes. He had never believed it was right for the Dornish to be included in the Hunger Games; they were not a conquered nation. The fact that one of his daughters had been picked had to drive him mad. She knew if he had his way, he'd call all of Dorne to the spears but would her uncle support her father? Sarella was just a bastard and a girl….

"Sarella Sand," the Host voiceover explained. "Is the natural daughter of Prince Oberyn Martell." Sarella looked at the other tribute to gauge her reaction. Was she the type who thought all bastards were treacherous?

The northern girl surprised her though. She stared at the screen but didn't seem to see it. It was almost like she didn't understand the words. Sarella wondered what had happened to this girl. Had she suffered some trauma in the arena? Was her mind all there?

"Sarella!" a small voice cried, calling her attention back to the screen. It was her sister, Dorea, her dark eyes shining as she squirmed in her mother's lap. "Sarella! You have to come home because you promised to teach me to shoot a bow!" she said, with the simple logic of a child. Something twisted inside Sarella's heart. She found that she was crying, even though she didn't want the other girl to see her as weak. "Obara said she'd teach me instead," Dorea continued, "but she's not as good." The screen showed Sarella coring apples with her bow. One after another, the apples fell to the ground with arrows straight through their middles. Out of the corner of her eye, Sarella noticed that the other tribute paid attention to this part but not the pleading voice of her sister that repeated, "You promised, Sarella. You promised."

Sarella wept openly then. It was a relief when the picture changed again, and showed a swamp filled with lizard lions. The browns and greens of the bog could not have been more different from the peaches and tans of the desert. "Meera Reed, the eldest child of Lord Howland Reed," the Host said. _Meera_ , Sarella thought. So that was her name.

The Host spoke to a female crannogman about what a good hunter Meera was, how she could catch anything in her net. Sarella looked over and found that Meera's green eyes were watching her instead of the television but Sarella could not tell what was going on behind them. She seemed to be planning something—but what? It made her anxious.

"Meera," said a slender boy on the screen. He had the strangest, green eyes that Sarella had ever seen. Odder, he seemed to realize that Meera Reed was paying no attention to him. "Meera, it's me Jojen. You have to listen," he said.

The northern girl turned toward the television slowly, blinking. The boy smiled at her. "We're so proud of you, Meera, of what you're trying to do, how you played the game. Father most of all. I know it's hard, but," he paused. "I will see you again soon. I dreamed it."

Meera Reed nodded slowly. She knew what the strange boy was saying, but Sarella had no clue. _He dreamed it?_

The boy's face faded away. The Host spoke about the two girls and their similarities and differences. Only the winner would get to see their loved ones again, and (as if it mattered) the winner would also get a pile of gold dragons presented by the Mad King himself. Upbeat music played behind him and then the screen flickered again, and it was gone. The arena was silent. Sarella felt unsure of what to do next.

Before she even realized that the force fields were gone, Sarella heard the other girl shout and then were tumbling, girl over girl. They rolled across the forest floor. Sarella desperately tried to keep hold of her bow, and to keep it from being smashed under their combined weight. She heard some of the arrows fall out of the quiver on her back but there was nothing to be done about it. All she would need was one.

When inertia would have stopped their tumbling, Meera Reed threw her weight into the roll, keeping them going. Sarella didn't understand what she was trying to do? Make Sarella too dizzy to shoot? It was chaos. Sarella saw the sky, then the ground, then sky again. She couldn't shut her eyes to keep the world from spinning because she had to watch Meera Reed, and her spiked trident. Sarella tried to wrest it from the other girl's grasp, but she was stronger and held on.

Sarella felt Meera's breath on her face. "When you meet the Mad King," the girl whispered so softly Sarella could barely hear her. Was she talking to herself? "Bring the bow."

And then the whirling and the whispering stopped. Sarella lay on the ground, panting, and looking up at the sky. Meera Reed was still on top of her. She shoved hard and the other girl staggered backwards. It was only then that Sarella noticed the trident sticking out of her belly.

It looked like an accident. Meera had been rolling too fast–their bodies too close. She had intended to stab Sarella but had got herself instead. The three points of the spear each drew dark liquid from Meera's gut. Sarella winced. Her bowels were punctured but it would be a long and painful death. A maester might've been able to sew her innards up, but there was no chance of that in the arena. Sarella looked in Meera's green eyes and knew that the other girl knew all this.

Like with Jeyne, Sarella reached to get an arrow. It would look like Sarella had shot her before Meera could react, she supposed, but it was mercy all the same. One shot into the center of Meera's chest—where the heart was—and she fell backwards.

Before the dragons came to collect the champion and the last tribute, Sarella looked back into her quiver. She had one arrow left.

 _Just enough._


End file.
